


Thou Art All the Comfort the Gods Will Diet Me With

by andraste_oz (vanessarama)



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-23
Updated: 2010-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-12 20:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanessarama/pseuds/andraste_oz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Uther character study, postscript to the events of ep 2.08; written for the hc_bingo square: insomnia</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thou Art All the Comfort the Gods Will Diet Me With

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** These characters don't belong to me in any incarnation, and I am making no money from them.   
> **Notes:** Title is from Shakespeare, _Cymbeline_

Wrapped in the comfort of the finest linen, Uther Pendragon lies on his back, staring at the dark canopy above. He breathes steadily and deeply, in and out and in again, trying to think of nothing. Anyone entering the room would assume that he sleeps, unless they were close enough to see the glint of open eyes in the thin moonlight.

It has been a long time since the King had trouble sleeping. It was common in his younger days, when he first took the throne, rash and untempered, with a sword that spoke the words he could not find. In the ensuing months he had gained diplomacy and wisdom; from his wife he learned joy, and his sleep was untroubled for some years.

By the fifth year with Ygraine at his side, Uther could not bear her sorrowful eyes and the tightening of her mouth as the seasons passed and she remained childless. He buried himself in her night after night, his pleasure undiminished; but the burden of barrenness had infused a different note into their coupling. Ygraine was wilder and more desperate, her cries fierce and uninhibited. Uther laboured hard to give her pleasure, being assured that it would help her conceive. Afterwards they each lay awake, acutely aware of each other's alertness despite their quiet breathing. Uther longed to give her comfort, but no words came to him. He always told himself that it was this longing, as much as his desire for an heir, that led him to put his trust in magic.

And then, after the whirlwind months of pregnancy during which Ygraine's skin and eyes and hair all glowed with preternatural beauty, she was gone and he was awake at nights again. Sometimes he spoke aloud, berated Ygraine for leaving him, pleaded with her to come back, to show a sign that she forgave him; some nights he just sobbed in open grief and guilt, alone in his too-large bed.

Within a year, the bitter wound of loss gradually subsided to an ever-present dull ache; now he sleeps solidly and heavily, interrupted at times with brief periods of fearful wakefulness. Both sleep and sleeplessness stem from the same source; his son. His bright, beautiful son, his hope for the future. Despite the childhood ailments which so often prove fatal and the attacks on his life which begin when he's still a boy, Arthur grows up strong and brave and honest. As he meets every challenge and conquers every threat, Uther's fears subside.

Tonight, though, is different. Tonight his bright and shining son pinned him to his own chair with a sword, his eyes - Ygraine's eyes - blazing with betrayal and grief. In the darkness two phrases echo, in the voices of his son and his son's servant, chasing each other round Uther's head like a dog after its own tail.

 _You heard what my mother said…_

 _Everything your mother said to you…_

What had they heard? Who had spoken to them?

"Was it you?" he whispers, gazing at the darkened canopy. "Was it really you?"

And then he is appalled by the cry which spills from his own lips, "Why him? Why won't you talk to _me_?"

There is no answer. There never has been.

***

The castle is still and silent when the king leaves his room. During the daytime he strides, upright and precise as the knight he still is, but now he pads down the corridor in his softest shoes, making little sound. There isn't far to go.

This is a ritual which Uther performs rarely and always covertly. He's hardly ever seen, and when he is, he tells no-one his purpose; any servants or guards he encounters who ask whether he needs anything are met with a firm order to go about their business. Nobody should know the secrets of a king's darkest hours.

When he turns into the corridor which contains his destination, Uther is surprised and wary to see someone exiting Arthur's room. It's Merlin, head down and shoulders slumped. He closes the door, and then leans back against it, his head falling backwards to thump softly against the dark wood. His eyes are closed; he hasn't noticed the king's presence although Uther is just a few strides from him. Uther stands quietly for a moment, cautiously observing the boy's weary face; his eyes are red-rimmed, with tiredness or crying or maybe just the strain of the day. If this were any other night, Uther might be suspicious of anyone - even his son's most trusted servant - exiting his son's room at such an hour. Not tonight, though.

Merlin straightens his head and pushes away from the door with a sigh, and suddenly sees the king watching him. He starts, bobbing his head quickly and opening his mouth, but Uther holds up a hand to forestall his apologies.

"How is Arthur?"

"He's asleep," Merlin answers. "He will be well, my lord. He feels better."

"Good," Uther responds. "I will look in on him for a moment."

"Sire, he's only just fallen asleep - " Merlin begins.

"He's not a child and you are not his nursemaid," says Uther tightly. "I will not disturb him." He looks at the boy's shadowed face and feels a surge of feelings so powerful that he almost chokes. This boy, this countryman from some backwater hamlet beyond the borders, is so deep in his son's trust that Arthur heeds his words over those of his own father. He knows Arthur at his most vulnerable; he has seen Camelot's king defenceless and trembling; and he has seen Ygraine. Uther is suddenly desperate to ask him _Was it really her? What did she look like? What did she say?_ Instead he waits until Merlin moves away from the door and says, "Of course, sire."

He'll have to thank the boy formally tomorrow, Uther thinks distantly. Such loyalty is rare and must be nurtured. Tonight, however, it's all too raw. He pushes the door open and enters Arthur's room.

The same dim moonlight that infiltrated the king's bedroom offers faint illumination here, and the room is warm; a few embers still glow in the fireplace. Arthur lies curled on his side, face half-buried in a pillow and half-turned toward the door. Unshielded in sleep, his face looks very young and vulnerable. There is an indentation on the bed by Arthur's hip, still warm, as if someone has been sitting there. Merlin, almost certainly. It's a liberty Uther cannot bring himself to resent tonight, as he seats himself carefully in the same place, and leans down to breathe in. Arthur smells like metal and sweat, like warm hair and wine, and very faintly like rosemary and wood smoke.

This is the most closely guarded secret of his life, known to fewer people even than the secret of Arthur's birth; Uther craves the comfort he can only get from being with Arthur as he sleeps.

It has been this way ever since the newborn child was first put in his arms and Uther, leaning down to peer into Arthur's face, breathed in the sleep-sweet scent of the baby's head. He's still astounded at the emotions he feels in his son's presence; as a sleeping baby, as a small, solemn boy and even as a grown man blazing with courage, Arthur's always managed to pull love from the depths of Uther's very bones.

Uther cannot, of course, let anyone see how fiercely he loves Arthur; there is something undignified, weak, even slightly ridiculous, in a king longing to be comforted by his own child. He disciplines his son severely from earliest childhood and berates him cruelly when he fails; he gives approval when merited - which is often - but deliberately does not feed Arthur's desperate hunger for his love, fearing the boy will grow up too soft. Arthur must be stronger and better than any Pendragon before him, for only if he outshines his father in every way can Uther forgive himself for Ygraine.

There will be time tomorrow to thank Merlin, to investigate what Morgause might know - and how - and to set Arthur's confused mind to rest. Now, however, it is enough to sit by his son's side, breathing him in and letting the comfort seep into his skin, so that it can fortify him long after Morgause and her treachery are forgotten.


End file.
